When Birds Come Back
by Cross the Sky
Summary: Murphy still dreams of birds, still longs for his life, and still loses sleep over the monster that got away with everything. With only Anne Cunningham willing to help him, can he walk the thin line between vengeance and justice?
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Silent Hill: Downpour and all characters within are not mine and no money is being made off of this._

_Spoilers: For the entire game. This fic takes the Forgiveness ending and goes from there._

_Warnings: Strong language and adult themes and content._

**When Birds Come Back**

The little bar was dark and smelled vaguely of stale sweat and old smoke under the booze. Twenty year old country music sounded tinnily over what conversation there was. There wasn't much. This wasn't the sort of place people came to converse. A handful of barstools were occupied by sad and tired men that slumped over their drinks and willed the world outside to forget about them. No one made eye contact. The only women in evidence were hard faced, worn looking working girls.

One booth was occupied. Murphy Pendleton sat slumped over this third bourbon, hair in his face and shoulders slumped forward. The name on his ID said 'Patrick Dougherty', but he didn't let it inside. A fake name and a fake life didn't actually change anything. There hadn't been any 'starting over' or any 'clean slate'. He had a cheap little apartment in a bad neighborhood, an under-the-table job fixing cabs at half-cost and a constant fear of being discovered. It didn't matter that no one was looking for him. New Hampshire wasn't that far away from people who knew and easily recognized Murphy Pendleton.

But he hadn't been able to leave. He'd thought about it, just fixing up a junk heap and driving it west until it gave out. Just stopping wherever the hell it broke down, making a life there. But he didn't feel finished, so to speak. He'd never been able to make things right with Carol. That bastard Sewell was still playing cock of the walk at Ryall, sleeping sound every night. And….

Well, there were just things that kept him hanging around. And maybe a small part of him hoped that somehow, against all odds and logic and reason, he could clear his name and have some semblance of a real life again. It was just a stupid pipe dream, he knew that, but…

What was that quote about hope? How it had feathers and perched in the soul?

He still dreamed often of birds.

The door to the dingy dive swung open and Murphy's third unnamed reason for staying close walked in. It always took him by surprise, how different she looked in the feminine dresses and shoes she wore when she made the trips out there. And the way her hair fell when it was down, how _soft_ it seemed in comparison to her sharp features. And her stern expression. Tonight it was a green knee-length thing with little thin straps and a low front. White shoes with heels. It was hot as hell even after dark in August and Murphy had to admit he appreciated the view.

Not that he'd ever let her know that.

He watched her legs as she crossed the room, moving his gaze before she was close enough to tell where he was looking. She had nice legs and he couldn't stop himself from giving his eyes a taste. He lived like a priest these days and he didn't get a chance to look at many pretty girls. Hard as it was to think of Anne Cunningham as a 'pretty girl'.

She slid into seat across from him and immediately she scowled. Oh. He'd done it again, left her the side where her back would be to the door. On one had he thought she was being paranoid. On the other, he knew damn well how much she risked by coming here.

"Brought you a book." Her tone was flat as it usually was. She pulled a substantial plain covered volume out of her purse and slid it across the table to him, tapping the cover once. She had something for him.

"Thanks."

"I don't know if you like poetry, but I found it in a thrift store and…I guess I thought of you." She never looked directly at him. Her eyes always went somewhere over his shoulder or in front of him.

"That's really nice. You want a drink?" He always offered and the answer was always the same.

"No. You alright?"

"As can be expected, madame." He tipped his bourbon towards her with a tight smile and she rolled her eyes.

"I mean it."

"I'm keeping my head down and my nose clean, officer, cross my heart. I'm not about to get my ass discovered."

Anne just side-glanced at him as though she didn't quite believe him. Well, what reason did she have to? He hadn't exactly shown a history rife with good decision making. She tapped her fingers on the table between them and looked at the darkened window.

"I don't know how often I can keep coming here."

"You can stop whenever you want." Murphy shrugged. He hadn't exactly asked for her help, he'd just…never told her 'don't bother', either. Maybe he should've, maybe it would have been better for them both. She could just go back to work and move on properly, and he could head west.

"I don't _want_ to stop!" Anne's eyes flashed and for a moment they met Murphy's. Grim determination and a myriad of unreadable things stormed within them and then she looked away, her lips a narrow line. Murphy cleared his throat and decided his hands were extremely interesting at the moment.

"I appreciate it," he managed. He knew she had her own reasons for working this, but…he liked to think at least part of it was for him. It was nice to think there was someone looking out for him, giving a damn about what happened to him. Even just a little. Even if it was her. He didn't look up at her, he couldn't bring himself to. The intensity in her eyes had shaken him, reminded him of times passed between them that were best left forgotten. He heard her clear her throat and the rustle of fabric.

"It's not for you, Pendleton. I've got to get back. I'll…be in touch."

He looked up as she rose, averting his eyes politely when her skirt rode up her thigh. She did have nice legs.

"Yeah. You know where to find me. Drive safe…" She was already walking away, oversized purse slung over her shoulder and little white heels tapping on the bar floor until she was gone.

Murphy knocked back the rest of his bourbon and grabbed the book she'd left. He slapped some money down on the counter and exited into the muggy night. She always said it wasn't for him. It was about her father, and justice. But if that were the case, why did she keep smuggling information to him? She could get justice for her father without involving Murphy at all. No matter what she wanted him to believe, she was Frank's daughter. She was a good person with a good heart, and she knew what this meant to him.

The walk back to his building was oppressive and unpleasant. The heat had him in poor spirits anyway and worrying about Anne and the danger she put herself in just to keep him in the loop wasn't helping. She'd seemed more nervous than usual tonight. Had someone followed her? She took extreme precautions - she used a car registered in someone else's name, dressed and wore her hair differently so as not to be recognized at a casual glance…. Damn it. Murphy wished he'd had the presence of mind to ask her if something had her riled up.

The apartment building he lived in was old and not in very good repair. It was rather desolate, always smelled like weed, and everyone kept to themselves. His own little unit was nothing remarkable but tonight the sight of it depressed him. There was hardly any furniture. There were next to no personal touches. Everything was military neat and hospital clean.

That was how it was in prison. Everything in its place, everything on a perfectly timed schedule. No deviation. It didn't matter that he wasn't in jail anymore, he couldn't shake those things. He still found himself using the bathroom at the exact same times, every day. Same with eating. When he made his bed he made it up the same exact way he'd been taught in prison. Nothing had really changed. This wasn't a home, it was just a two-room prison cell.

In a sudden burst of anger Murphy flung out his arm and swept the neat row of plastic cups and spice jars onto the floor. They rolled and clattered on the wooden floor. It made a good sound. Setting the book on the counter Murphy moved along the counter, pushing everything to the floor. Dish rack, coffee maker, bottles of soap…everything. He heard breaking glass and didn't care. He pulled his single pan from the hook on the wall and hurled it against the thrift-store couch that was the main piece of furniture in the whole dump.

Oddly enough, his little outburst had left him heaving and sweating. That was probably the heat, too, there was no air in here. Raking back his damp bangs, Murphy forced himself to turn away from the mess he'd made. Let it sit there. Let things be scattered all over the floor, broken glass and old coffee and paper towels…he could leave it there if he wanted to.

But he couldn't. Before he could open the book and find whatever Anne had felt the need to risk detection bringing him, he had to clean up the damned floor. His head would buzz and tingle unpleasantly if he didn't. Was it possible to develop OCD? He'd once read that it was the need to perform certain actions to dispel a feeling of doom. That was sure as hell what it felt like to him. He took care of the glass first, and felt a bit like an idiot for breaking his coffee pot. He'd have to get a new one now. The whole mess went in the trash. Cups and dish rack were righted and returned to their proper places. Frying pan was retrieved from the couch and re-hung on the wall. Spilled coffee - with bits of missed glass drifting in it - was mopped up and disposed of.

With that finished Murphy grabbed the book and a bottle of water from the fridge and retreated to his bedroom. It was a little more personal in here, with bed and dresser and bookshelf. Even a little round rug at the side of the bed, for in winter when the floors were cold. There were a few objects on top of Murphy's dresser - a hairbrush, deodorant, small signs of active life - and three of the bookshelf's four shelves were filled with paperback books, comics and magazines. On top of the bookshelf was Murphy's prized possession, in his hands thanks to Anne. A school picture of Charlie, aged seven years old, gap-toothed and grinning at the camera. Murphy smiled to it before sitting on the bed and finally turning his attention to the book.

He had a moment of surrealism when he realized it was a book of Emily Dickinson poems. She had been the one to write that thing about hope, hadn't she? How weird, that he'd been thinking of that just earlier before Anne walked in…

Maybe it was some sort of good omen.

The book opened to the hidden, xeroxed page inside. Murphy opened them eagerly, eyes scanning the text to get an idea of what it was.

An internal report on an 'incident' three weeks prior. Murphy had heard it on the radio, an inmate at Ryall beaten to death and found in a workshop closet. Funny how the place had a history with that. The official explanation had been gang violence. The report in Murphy's hand told a different story entirely.

**"…was found by Officer Kyle Norman who noticed some sort of 'seepage' from underneath the door. Upon**

**opening the storage room Officer Norman stated 'it was impossible to see anything, but the smell was un-**

**godly.' Officer Norman immediately alerted his superior who discovered the body proper. It was impossible**

**to identify the victim on-site as the bodily damage was too extensive. Immediate cause was noted as one**

**of the machines in the workroom. Autopsy would reveal that victim was alive when forced into the machine.**

**Victim was identified prior to autopsy via headcount. The family has been notified and proper reports have**

**been issued to the media, print and television. The victim, Darryn Brown, has been involved in repeated**

**acts of gang violence, and this incident is being treated as such to the public. However, we are conducting**

**our own investigation, as I am sure I needn't remind everyone the reputation we are garnering here. While**

**inmate violence is certainly an issue for every incarceration facility, we here at Ryall have seen far too**

**much of it of late. **

**I don't know what's going on, but by God this has got to stop!"**

It was signed the head of corrections, CC'ed to all supervising officers. Murphy wasn't surprised at all. There was still a monster stalking the halls of Ryall and it was a monster that lusted for blood. George Sewell was a sociopath with a badge and the thought of him both angered Murphy and scared him shitless. Sewell was a monster and they gave him power and a badge and the monster got fed and got bigger. And Murphy, who knew he had made some bad choices but didn't think he was a _bad_ man…he had to give up everything and live in fear. It wasn't fair.

But…maybe the winds of change were in the air. This wasn't much, he knew that, but it was _something_. And it was well worth Anne taking the risk to bring it to him. He'd always hoped that Sewell would go too far, do too much, raise too many eyebrows.

"Hear that?" he asked the picture of his son, looking to it and grinning. "Things might just be looking up."

He folded the report back up and stuck it between the volumes in his bookshelf. He needed to figure out some other, safer way to stash his forbidden pages. There were only a few, but slowly they were starting to tell a terrible story. Murphy had thought he'd seen the worst of Sewell. He really couldn't imagine anything worse than what had gone down in those showers, the way the CO had so casually and brutally set to…

It made him shake just to think about. But worse than that were hints that what he had seen was only the tip of the iceberg. Just what the hell was Sewell _doing_ in that place?

The first report was about an increase in inmate drug trafficking. Harder stuff was coming in and they didn't know from where. But there'd been some fights, some tainted contraband. A guard had been killed, a pretty young guy. New to Ryall and new to corrections and the 'accident' had been chalked up to inexperience. The 'accident' had ended with the twenty three year old's head beaten in against the bars of a holding cell.

The second report wasn't so much a report as a complaint from janitorial that cleaning supplies were coming up unaccounted for. But it added to the puzzle and slowly a picture was coming together. A picture that no one but he or Anne could possibly see. And she was at Wayside and he was in New Hampshire and neither one of them were close enough to really make much of a difference.

"Oh to hell with this."

Murphy didn't even know why he was so desperate to hold onto this shitty apartment and the meager scraps of a life he'd cobbled together for himself. Either Sewell's tower would come crashing down and he'd be cleared or Sewell would win and he didn't have anything anyway. Either way he couldn't just sit up here, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for Anne to smuggle him what scraps _she_ was able to cobble together. It had been a year since he was reported dead and he knew how to keep his head down.

Maybe he was being stupid but at least he was doing something. He was _feeling_ something. Passion was a thing long missing from his life. Even the passion of revenge had been a bitter and acrid thing, no joy to it. This wasn't about revenge. This was about justice and hell, the greatest people he'd ever known had been passionate about justice. Justice for Frank and justice for himself. _Real_ justice, in a court of law and in the eyes of man and god alike.

Maybe he just needed something to live for.

Now, a cold shower to wash away the sweat and then bed. In the morning he'd pack up his clothes and his books and his picture of Charlie and head back towards Ryall. The prison might have been done with him, but he wasn't done with it.

Or it's wheeling and dealing devil.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

In the clearing beside the road stood a circle of tree stumps. Vines and graffiti covered them and rain and wind had worn smooth their edges, a testament to how long they had sat as dead wood. Soft grasses and small flowers filled the spaces around them but the circle they formed lay empty. It was a weird little place, Murphy decided. He'd pulled off to drain his bladder and found his eyes resting again and again on that curiously empty center. He wondered f maybe kids burnt stuff in there, playing at being witches or druids or whatever it was the kids were all nuts about today. When he was a teenager it had all been about vampires - at least for the kids who were into that kind of stuff. It'd never been his thing. He'd been more into rock and roll and sneaking into bars.

At least here, on the country road he'd chosen to avoid major throughways, it wasn't too hot. The trees made for nice shelter from the sun and there was nothing to hear but birdsong. After finishing up his business Murphy had taken a seat a ways off the road to have a cigarette and enjoy being in nature. He hadn't been much of a smoker before prison, but somewhere along the line he'd developed a legitimate habit. But what the hell, right? He didn't have too many pleasures left to him, at least he could enjoy a cigarette on a sunny afternoon on the side of the road in picturesque New England.

And honestly, it was pretty damn divine. The rustling of the leaves, the call of the birds, the warm sun on his neck and lower arms…these were simple pleasures he'd had to re-learn how to enjoy. It was kind of funny now, when he watched movies or TV where someone got out of prison. There was always all this joy and immediate exuberance to be _free_. If only it were really like that. Too much time on the inside and it got into a guy's blood. The outside was scary after more than a year or two locked away. Prison was its own society with its own rules and social structures and that stayed with you. The whole reason Murphy had pulled over to pee wasn't because he _had_ to, but because this was one of his scheduled bathroom breaks. It took a while to not freak out at all the open sky and the lack of walls and barbed wire.

And here he was, finally shaking off the spectral hold prison had, heading right back towards it.

"What the hell is wrong with me?"

Was he doing the right thing? He told himself it was all about justice, about what was _right_…but was it? Was he just prettying up vengeance? What the hell was the difference, anyway? Courts were run by men with laws and sentences and trappings all made by men. Who got to say who could pass judgement on another person?

"God."

Murphy snorted as he answered himself. Only God could pass true judgment, and the courts of men didn't matter at all. That was what he had been taught, ever since he could remember. The shadow of God, ever present and ever watching, always over him. What had God ever done for him? Murphy didn't even know if he believed anymore. God was good, he'd been taught. But God was jealous and angry. God answered the prayers of men and punished the sinful and unworthy…but also those He loved the most. What the hell kind of a God was that? What god made man only to make them suffer?

"But without suffering, we would know no joy."

He spoke with a mock Irish brogue, his mind sent back to dozens of youthful theological debates with the sisters. None of it made any more sense to him now than it had then.

He'd spent too long sitting by the road. Snuffing his cigarette out, Murphy stood and stretched and looked off towards the direction of Ryall. He wasn't sure what he was going to do, how he was going to gain any sort of access to the prison, but he'd figure something out. He liked to think he was a resourceful guy.

Back on the road. The last time he'd driven like this he'd been in a stolen police car. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time.

And so did this.

_Fuck!_

This self doubt was like a cancer, gnawing and gnawing and gnawing at him. He fidgeted with the radio until he found some hard rock station and then turned it up as loud as he could. He rolled down the windows and let the cold air beat against his face. It pressed his sunglasses against his forehead and threatened to tear his battered Red Sox cap off of his head. What else could he do?

Go west. Or south. Go to Mexico. That was every con's dream, wasn't it? He wasn't that old, he still had a life ahead of him. Why should he risk it when there was a damn good chance Sewell was going to trip up and get caught anyway?

Money was the obvious issue, of course. He wasn't flush enough to flee to Mexico or anywhere worth fleeing to. Or to live well when he got there. But beyond that… Murphy glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror, expression blank behind his dark glasses. Sewell _was_ going to go down, one way or another.

And he was going to be there when it happened.

XXX

The road to Ryall took Murphy through painfully familiar territory. There was a moment, a painful and near uncontrollable moment, where he almost took an exit that would take him to his old neighborhood. He had to grip the sterling while and stare straight ahead and grind his teeth to cover up the whispers in his mind. He just wanted to see, that was all. Who lived there now. How the home had made with Carol and Charlie had been erased and some other family's home standing there in its place.

But those were dark things that wouldn't make any difference. Charlie was gone. Carol was gone. That life was a memory now, something in the long-ago. And anyway, he was going back much further than Charlie.

He needed a place to stay. He couldn't risk a motel or anything like that, not so close to his own stomping grounds. Even with large dark glasses and a baseball cap pulled down, he feared being recognized. He couldn't cover up the scar on his face, or the way he moved. He'd spent most of the drive trying to figure out where the hell he was going to go. He'd considered breaking down and going to Cunningham, but he knew how that would end. After the stony, chilling glare and the curses about his idiocy, she'd send him home. The place he called 'home' now.

He'd rather walk into the ocean, he realized. He hated that cramped little apartment and the strange city that housed it. He hated his neighbors, the skunkish smell of old pot, the dirty bodega on the corner. He hated it all. It wasn't his and it meant nothing to him. How was he supposed to go on when he didn't have a damn thing to go on _for_? So he'd lived his little parable and learned his lesson and for what? To rot away in a factory city in New Hampshire, staring at the TV and smoking cigarettes and getting a second hand high from the dealer upstairs?

That wasn't a life worth winning. If that was all that was left for him, wherever he went, he didn't want this life.

Which begged the question of what he'd do if this all amounted to nothing. He didn't have a plan. He didn't even know for sure if he had a place to stay, he could only hope. And pray.

He would have to at least call Anne, though. She'd figure out he'd taken off soon enough and the last thing he wanted was her chasing after to drag him back by the scruff of his neck. And she would, he had no doubt about that, even he didn't go to her. No matter what she claimed, he knew she had a soft spot for him. He'd think of something to tell her.

The exit he _did_ want was coming up. Murphy pulled off and slowed down, entering into an urban area that was painfully familiar. He drove until he entered an old fashioned part of town, brick and stone but old and falling into decay. It was a poor place, but clean and full of life. Kids ran along the sidewalks, shouting and calling to each other. Men and women stood in doorways, chatting and laughing. Street carts dotted the sides of the road, vendors calling out in the early evening heat.

It hadn't changed that much since Murphy had been little. The names of stores were different and so were the faces, but the landscape was the same. Once upon a time he'd been one of those kids, running down the sidewalk with a popsicle in one hand and a toy gun in the other, whooping and hollering like the cowboy he was pretending to be. Those were good memories, warm and golden and long before tragedy had ever touched him. Though he supposed that wasn't true, but he had been too little to ever remember his parents. He'd never been able to miss something he didn't have.

When he finally pulled over, Murphy couldn't bring himself to get out of the car. He rolled down his window and sat, watching across the street with a lump rising in his throat. Behind a wrought iron fence, a playground. There were maybe half a dozen kids milling about, enthusiastic and energetic despite the heat. It was like kids didn't even feel it. They looked so happy, at least from where the ex-con sat. He'd been happy there, too.

Behind the playground rose the majestic bulk of Saint Mary's, the only home Murphy had ever known as a child. He'd even gotten married in the chapel there, leaving straight from the Monastery to start his new life.

How many 'new lives' could a man have?

A sudden cough and rapping on the top of his car made Murphy jump, wheeling about in a panic. A petite and stern faced young sister stood, leaning down and glaring in at him.

"Is there something you _need_?"

The hostility in her voice shook Murphy and he found himself unable to speak for a moment. Why was she so angry? He hadn't been doing anything, just sitting in his car…watching the playground. In big dark glasses and a baseball cap pulled down over his unshaven face. Of course she was angry at him.

She thought he was a monster.

"Uh, yeah." Murphy cleared his throat and wet his lips, grateful he at least did have a reason to be here. "I was wondering if Sister Mary Helen was still here? I, uh…I grew up at Saint Mary's. Haven't been back in a while."

The sister watched him closely for a moment before her expression softened.

"She's still here. Always will be, I suspect. Come now, get out of the car and stop gawking like a dullard. I'm sure it's not that different."

Still reluctant to trust his fate to the hands of God's brides, Murphy slowly complied. He was gambling pretty hard here, that the church honestly would offer sanctuary to anyone who asked. It was what he'd been taught as a boy, but so much of what the church had told him were lies. Not to mention Disney movies.

"I don't think I remember you?" It was an obvious question, and Murphy avoided the obvious answer.

"Probably not, I left over fifteen years ago. I'm pretty sure you're younger than me, Sister." It was dreamlike, walking through the iron gate and onto the grounds of the Monastery. For a moment all Murphy could think of was how it looked nothing like the ghostly husk in Silent Hill. He cast his eyes upwards as they passed through the playground, letting the sounds of children at play envelop him. The tower seemed so tall and for a moment he was as a child again. The sun was going down behind the Monastery, a shimmering ball blotted out by comforting stone. Shadows stretched cool and long, like hands reaching out to greet him. The air was hazy, muted. Dream-air. Saint Mary's was edged in a faint tinge of light and looking up at the cross that crowned the central spire… Murphy felt like maybe, maybe things were going to be alright.

If he could convince Sister Helen to let him stay.


End file.
